


mama called you baby center stage

by goldminegoldmine



Series: ace jongin [1]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Aromantic, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Autochorissexual Character, Autochorissexuality, Gen, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 14:26:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3532724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldminegoldmine/pseuds/goldminegoldmine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes Jongin feels like he’s cheating because he has this character. This sexual, sharp character who can roll his hips like he means it and only exists on stage. Being Kai brings something completely foreign into him and he can’t really relate to Kai except that he is Kai. It’s a contradiction that stops him up and keeps him going all at once. </p><p>-</p><p>autochorrissexual/aromantic Jongin navigates his relationships with the rest of the members (+Taemin) and explores his identity</p>
            </blockquote>





	mama called you baby center stage

**Author's Note:**

> includes some light implied d/s, implied zitao/kyungsoo, implied past minseok/lu han, and a lot of exo fam feelings. not really sure what to tag, let me know if i should add anything!
> 
> GOD BLESS MARA

Junmyeon is the first to know. 

During an interview early in the morning, someone asks Jongin about his ideal type. Usually he settles for giggling and embarrassed, because that comes across well and he doesn’t end up saying anything at all. Right now it’s a little too early and he’s a little too tired to be anything but honest.

He huffs a laugh, a scoff, and says, “No one is my type.”

The interviewer plays it off as a cop-out and asks Chanyeol instead. Jongin feels a little bit of regret flare up in him like he’s said something wrong and his heart beats loud as Junmyeon looks at him, considering, from across their half-circle. 

Later Junmyeon asks, edging around playful, “You have to have an ideal type, Kai, what’s the secret?”

“I don’t.”

Junmyeon’s expression changes and the laughter drops away from his voice. “You don’t?”

“I don’t have to have an ideal type, okay. No one is my type like that.”

They’re back in the lobby now, waiting to leave and sitting close together on a scratchy couch. 

“I thought something was wrong. Will you explain what you mean?” Junmyeon’s face is so open and his eyes are so wide. It fools Jongin into honesty.

“I know I’m one way on stage, but I’m not that way actually, I. I don’t really… think about people in that way?”

Junmyeon hums, looking at Jongin gently. “Do you mean like romantically? Or sex? You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m just wondering.”

“I mean both, I guess. I’ve never wanted to have sex with anyone, and I don’t like to think about dating. I never really feel like I want that either.”

Junmyeon’s expression is so kind and fond and Jongin, suddenly, is exhausted. 

“You can ask me more questions later if you want, hyung, okay? I want to sleep before practice.”

“Of course,” Junmyeon nods, and they walk out, leaning on each other.

-

Jongin is just a little bit shaky all throughout practice that night. He’s rested and he’s eaten and he’s stretched out his limbs enough but he’s a little bit off, each roll of his body a few centimeters away from the ideal, his feet just a half beat out of time.

He’s never told anyone what he told Junmyeon. 

It’s not that it’s a secret, it’s just that people don’t ask him questions that much. People assume things and he doesn’t usually correct them. Unless they ask, and now Junmyeon has.

Now Junmyeon knows, and now it feels like he does have a secret. Not because he wants to, but because one of them knows and the rest of them don’t, it becomes like a secret. It becomes something different, and it’s unsettles him. It pushes things out of balance in his mind and his body, and he starts to pull apart each of his movements, his actions, his words. It’s usually easy for Jongin to dance, but right now it’s hard.

Sometimes Jongin feels like he’s cheating because he has this character. This sexual, sharp character who can roll his hips like he means it and only exists on stage. Being Kai brings something completely foreign into him and he can’t really relate to Kai except that he is Kai. It’s a contradiction that stops him up and keeps him going all at once. 

But as soon as he knows that everyone else knows, every move he makes comes into question. Will they think he’s making everything up if he snarls and winks at the camera, will the choreography change with his identity, will it lessen his impact – 

Junmyeon finds him sitting on the studio floor, legs outstretched, leaning his head against the barre. 

“Jongin?” 

Jongin’s not sure how long he’s been there thinking like this.

“Come on, my Kai, it’s time to sleep. You’ve been here for so long, come back with everyone.”

Jongin sighs, slow and haltingly getting to his feet. He lets Junmyeon take his arm and lead him out of the studio. His dance shoes click quietly along the floor.

“You don’t think of me differently now, do you hyung?”

Junmyeon looks up at him. “No,” he answers quickly and steadily. “Why? Because of your sexuality?”

Jongin makes a noncommittal noise. 

“I don’t think differently because you’re asexual.”

He curls in on himself just a little bit. Jongin hasn’t spent much time trying to define himself, and he doesn’t even know if he completely identifies with the word asexual. He hasn’t had much experience or exposure to any of those words, but something happens in him when Junmyeon says it, and it’s good so he smiles. 

“Okay.”

-

Jongin is relieved once Baekhyun knows because Baekhyun loves to push. He pushes up against Jongin and the rest of them all day and every day, tireless and unyielding. He’s not mean or malicious, he’s just loud. He’s loud and he’s touchy in a harsh way sometimes, and he likes talking about sex with anyone who will stand there and listen.

“Tell me Kai, when’s the last time you got some?”

Jongin doesn’t answer, pretends not to hear. 

“What was she like?”

Resolutely, Jongin avoids Baekhyun’s gaze, completely at a loss. 

“You gotta give me something, Kim, come on, give me some details!” Baekhyun is hopping with energy, unchecked, wheedling. “Tell me her name –”  
“No!” Jongin finally snaps, getting up from the practice room floor. Chanyeol and Sehun look over at him, confused.

Baekhyun raises his hands. “What? I’m just trying to get you to open up, why won’t you just tell –”

“I don’t want to!”

Junmyeon, drawn by the unusual volume of Jongin’s voice, asks “What’s going on?”

Jongin just shakes his head. He’s not confident that he won’t cry if he speaks, frustration and uncertainty blocking up his throat. He thought this part of himself was benign, just existing, just another bit of him like his hair or his fingernails, part of his definition but not dangerous. He never, and maybe he’s been naïve, protected by his circumstance, his family, his leader-ssi, but he never thought he’d have to defend himself in this way.

“I don’t know,” Baekhyun says, an edge to his voice. “I just asked him a question, I don’t know what’s wrong with that.” He looks confused and sharp and a tiny bit hurt. Jongin bites back feeling bad and turns to Junmyeon.

“Can I talk to you, hyung?” 

Junmyeon brings him to an empty hallway, hand a feather touch on his shoulder.

“About what I told you earlier, um. I haven’t. No one else knows and I’m not sure what to do.” Jongin runs a hand through his hair, slumping a little, face close to his leader’s.

Junmyeon says, “I can talk to him, I. If you want. I don’t know exactly what happened, but if I can help, I should.” Junmyeon looks steady into his eye. “I will.”

Jongin’s heart is pounding. “I just. He was pushing and he doesn’t understand…”

Junmyeon asks, as unsure as he ever is, if Jongin wants him to help tell the others. 

Jongin swallows. His entire throat feels dry. “I don’t know. I... I’m not sure if I can, I’m just. I’m not great at talking, and it’s so –”

“You’re good at talking.”

Jongin smacks Junmyeon on the shoulder. “I’m not, and you know it. Stop being nice.”

Junmyeon just smiles.

“I – yeah. If you. Tell them, or just, imply or something. I can help,” Jongin laughs, putting his face in his hands, embarrassed, but something in Junmyeon’s simple presence dispels embarrassment. “I want to tell them.”

Junmyeon says “Okay” and smiles at him, touching his shoulder again, gripping slightly for a moment. He doesn’t hug Jongin, and Jongin is shaky, rattling around in his own body a little, needing a minute to settle down. He’s grateful.

-

Their first performance of Pretty Boy is only a few weeks away, and Jongin and Taemin have been dancing all day. It’s evening by now. Jongin’s feet are bare and Taemin is wearing socks, somehow sticking to the ground just enough. He’s perfected the art of never skidding. Jongin’s soles stick and skip. He turns. 

They’ve been here for so many hours. Taemin yawns but he’s smiling. Jongin can’t quite feel his legs anymore, but it’s not in a bad way. He knows better, but he feels so unexhausted in this moment, so immersed in this specific type of energy. Taemin stumbles and laughs. Jongin laughs too, more of a silent, breathless huff. They start again. Jongin’s knees aren’t cracking. It feels like he’s getting better at moving, each second. He feels liquid.

He’s a half-hard in his sweatpants and it’s giving him a little bit of an edge. This happens sometimes, but it’s usually fine. It’s from the adrenaline, Jongin figures, the simple act of moving his body for so long like this. It usually goes away a few minutes after he’s done dancing. 

He takes a few steps to the right, crosses behind Taemin. He knows this choreography almost by heart and his limbs are kicking into automatic and it feels amazing.  
In the last seconds of their sixth or seventh run-through, Jongin is buzzing. He tries not to pay attention to how hot and tight the bottom of his stomach is. 

He almost topples right into Taemin as they come to a finish. Bent over, arm over his stomach in a final bow Jongin realizes that he can’t stand up, there’s just white space between his ears. He drops to the ground like he’s been scored and folded along the lines of his knees and his waist. 

The music has stopped and he can hear Taemin’s breathing and – oh god – his own heavy panting filling up the quiet studio, and he can feel the wet spot in his boxers with embarrassing clarity.

“Oh.” He can’t believe that just happened. “Oh my god.” Jongin can’t do anything but sit there and put his face in his hands. He can’t believe that just happened.

“Jonginnie?”

Jongin groans. He can’t do this, he can’t look at Taemin, Taemin just saw him dance his way to an orgasm. 

“Jongin, Jonginnie, look at me.”

Jongin lifts his head a little, scrunching up his face and peeking at Taemin out of the corner of his eye. His skin is so hot and he doesn’t ever want to unwrap his arms from around his knees. 

Taemin has his hands clasped together in front of his chin, looking at Jongin from a few feet away. He’s wearing a wide, wide smile. It looks so beautiful on him, and Jongin remembers that this is Taemin who has never really made him feel bad, or hurt him, or held anything against him. 

“Don’t worry,” Taemin says through his grin. “I won’t tell.”

-

Jongin is stretched out on the couch in the late morning, leaning his head and shoulders up on the armrest, vaguely watching the TV, half-awake, when Zitao picks him. Pads over and curls his longer body up in front of Jongin in the few inches of couch left open, wiggles back into Jongin’s chest until their legs overlap and Jongin can smell his shampoo. He says a quiet “good morning” and hums.

It’s usual for Zitao to be wrapped completely around one of them at most times. He’s the most tactile person Jongin has ever met, reaching out like instinct for whoever’s closest and latching on. They’re all accustomed after this much time with him, they welcome it, offer him affection more than they do anyone else because he soaks it up and grows with it. 

It’s quiet for a long moment.

Jongin is drifting and Zitao’s eyes are closed but he hums again, lower and longer. “This is nice. You’re so warm.” His words are all sliding together and he turns his face into Jongin’s arm, the little cold tip of his nose on Jongin’s skin. “You smell good.” 

Jongin can’t see, but he feels a kiss pressed into his forearm. 

He tries, he makes a real effort not to let his pulse speed up or his body tense, he really does, but there’s a little bit of fear creeping in. He tries not to – this is his friend, his hyung, his Tao. But the crawling, uncomforting displacement that happens whenever he knows that someone has real sexual or romantic feelings for him is filling him up. What if Zitao wants something from him, what if this energy coming from all around him is the kind of energy that Jongin doesn’t want?

Another kiss, and Zitao’s soft open lips stay on his skin. “I love you, Jonginnie.”

No, no, he can’t handle that, that type of love isn’t – 

He moves too fast, dislodges Tao who lands on the floor, disoriented and hurt. 

“Sorry,” he says as quickly as he can, and runs.

-

Twice, Jongin has thought of himself as in love.

First it happened with Yifan. It was a week after he’d left for good, for good, and all Jongin could do was stay awake and remember each time they had ever touched. The time after a long practice when Yifan who hardly ever touched anyone first came up behind Jongin – who hardly ever touched anyone first – and leaned his forehead hot against Jongin’s upper back. All many feet of him hunched over and resting on Jongin without his usual guard. He hadn’t said anything, and Jongin had stayed very still and smiled until, after a brief hug, Yifan had leaned away. 

A week after Yifan left, just that memory was enough to make Jongin cry. 

It was relentless and intense, bubbling up in him – the way Yifan had sounded when he’d told Jongin for the first time that he was homesick and he didn’t know where for; how, once, Yifan had sleepily said good morning and kissed Jongin’s cheek like it was something he did every day. Every minor interaction they’d ever had, one stacked on another on another, mundane memories making Jongin’s chest tight and breaths skip.

That was it, he thought. He’d never felt anything like it before, nothing so focused and all-consuming, and so it had to be love.

But then it happened again when, just a moment later, Lu Han was gone and Jongin felt almost doubled over with it, the exponential weight of all their memories pressing down on him. 

Those rare, quiet moments when Lu Han had let Jongin lay back on his chest, when he turned his little smile on Jongin and Jongin felt so special. The playful way Lu Han would sometimes handle him, like they were the same age after all and in the same place. He remembered once when Lu Han had turned to him because he wasn’t sure he was using the right word, and he’d left his face so open that Jongin could see all his uncertainty and anxiety right there, so easy to read. 

Jongin turned his face into his pillow and felt throughout his whole body the fear of _what if I’m in love with him too?_

He’d gone to Minseok because Minseok always seemed to have that same feeling in his eyes when he looked at Lu Han. 

“I think I might be in love with Yifan,” he’d said, fast, looking at his feet. 

“What?”

“And maybe with Lu Han, too.”

He looked up and Minseok’s eyes were wide, his mouth open. 

“I’m just. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I don’t know what to do.”

Jongin couldn’t remember most of what Minseok had said that night, just that he’d wrapped Jongin up in his strong arms and his knitted blanket and sang until it was too late for Jongin’s eyes to stay open. 

For a solid moment he was sure he was in love. 

He’s never considered it again, knows that a romantic relationship is not something he wants for himself, not something he relates to in any part of himself. Knows, logically, that even if he was convinced in a raw, distant way that he was in love, the thought of anyone being in love with him or pursuing him like that makes him cringe. 

But he and Minseok had both cried a little together that night, and it had felt real. Later Jongin had realized that he wasn’t in love, just broken apart in a new way, just missing. Just hurt.

-

It’s eleven at night and Jongin’s playing with hot wax, dipping just the tip of his index finger into the bottom of the candle and letting it dry and turn white before dipping it in again. The little cap of wax gets bigger and bigger each time. 

“Jongin?”

Zitao pokes his head around the corner, hair slightly wet and spiking up all over. His voice is unsure. Jongin pops the dried wax off his finger and places it back on top of the candle so it can melt again. He’s forced the fear inside him to dissipate since earlier, the brief panic fading. Zitao is his friend and his bandmate and there’s nothing hiding beneath that surface. There can’t be.

“What’s up, hyung?”

With a hunched back and twisting hands, Zitao walks over to where Jongin is and sits next to him on the bed. He hardly reacts to the “hyung” – usually that gets a smile or a blush from him, but not today. They’re not touching. 

“I’m –”

His voice cracks, which isn’t unusual but feels a little like a smack.

“I’m just. I’m confused.”

Jongin drops his chin and looks down. This is exactly the last thing he wants. He feels regret.

“I’m confused because I just – ” Zitao’s eyes are too shining and Jongin wants to curl up and hide because if Zitao cries right now it’ll be his fault, and that’s a fucked up blame to put on yourself. “I just want you to be happy. I just want you to be happy and I want to be happy and I don’t know how to do that right now.”

He is crying, now, and Jongin wants to crumble. 

“I really want to touch you.” 

He just wants to crumble and crawl away, the fear flooding him suddenly again. This could ruin everything. Jongin can’t lose Tao like that.

“Because I know that nothing makes me happier – almost nothing makes me happier than touching you. All of you. My whole day was made hugging Minseok this morning. My whole month was made whenever Lu Han held my hand, I’m just. It’s just. I’m not.” Zitao sighs and stomps his feet a little, turning to look Jongin straight in the eye. “I just want to make you happy in that way.”

Jongin wants to laugh with how much relief sinks through him. Of course, of course; this is Zitao, he knows Zitao, and of course this is what he meant. 

Little sounds and shakes are coming out of him and Jongin scoots over, puts an arm around his shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay, Taozi.”

Zitao immediately turns his face into Jongin’s neck. Jongin isn’t great at knowing how to touch people, but he strokes the flat of his hand over Zitao’s hair and rests his cheek against Zitao’s head as his sniffles slow. A long moment passes. There’s a lot of weight resting on Jongin now, like Zitao has just let everything he has lean over and into him.

“I just want to make you happy. Can I? Can I just, please –” Zitao is speaking, muffled, right into Jongin’s neck, and the easiest thing to do is just slump over. Taking Zitao with him, Jongin lies down. He can see into Zitao’s eyes now, and their pupils are big, big and dark; their lids half down. His hand is everywhere on Jongin’s torso, clenching and unclenching in his T-Shirt, skimming up and down his side, clutching at his shoulder blade. “I’ll be good, please, I just want to make you happy, please –”

Jongin doesn’t know what to do besides let Zitao wrap him up, legs and arms completely catching him up and drawing him in. There are tiny little tremors running through his limbs, like all his energy is in them, keeping them around Jongin, keeping them fitted tight around each other. He’s never seen Zitao like this before; is familiar with the tired and clingy, the way he takes affection from all of them when he needs it, but this is different in a way Jongin can’t quite articulate. But he’s warm, and the bed is soft, and the little bit of exhaustion he carries with him all the time takes over.

He drifts for a while. Zitao is breathing slow, slow, slow, still running shivering hands over Jongin’s clothes and skin. He whispers something that Jongin can’t really hear.

“Hmm?”

“Am I good?”

Jongin turns slowly to look at Zitao’s face. His eyes are open but unfocused. He looks wrecked.

“Am I good? Is this good? Please.”

His words are barely full coming out of his mouth, his accent stronger than Jongin’s ever heard it. Zitao is somewhere else, skittering his fingers at Jongin’s chest and neck, pushing their legs together and around each other. 

“I… yeah, Taozi, this is good, you’re fine, it’s okay.”

Zitao doesn’t respond except to press a few centimeters closer to him.

“Are you okay? Do you want to sleep? Do you need some water?” Jongin searches Zitao’s face for clues. This is something new, he doesn’t know about this Tao, he doesn’t know what to do. Zitao keeps murmuring. Jongin can hardly hear him anymore. 

There’s a soft knock on the door. Jongin looks up over Zitao’s shoulder. Kyungsoo is peering around the half-open door. He takes in the two of them for a moment, and then comes completely into the room.

“I’ve got it,” Kyungsoo whispers when he gets up close to Jongin’s side of the bed. “I’ve got this, you can go if you want.”

Jongin pats Zitao’s hand awkwardly. “Thanks, Taozi,” he says quietly because it feels like the right thing to say. “Thank you, hyung.”

He watches from the doorway as Kyungsoo touches Zitao’s face and hair gently with his small hands, talking close to him in a low smooth voice.

Quietly, Jongin slips away.

-

Yixing is worried that he’s hurt Jongin, too. His wide-eyed concern has Jongin apologizing and assuring him otherwise immediately, not wanting Yixing to second-guess himself or feel any guilt. 

“Promise to tell me if I do?” 

Jongin wants to cry with the sudden and overwhelming affection he feels.

“I promise you won’t,” Jongin answers, giving Yixing a small smile.

Yixing just puts a hand on his shoulder, leans up close to him and leaves a tiny kiss on his jaw. If Jongin could fall in love, he might fall in love with Yixing. Yixing’s acceptance is easy. It’s unconditional.

-

With Jongdae it’s a little harder.

Jongin has always known that Jongdae is attracted to him. Jongdae is the type who wholeheartedly believes you don’t get anything you want if you don’t ask, and he’s straightforward about his affection, sexual or otherwise. Jongin is attracted to him too, in his own abstract way; appreciates the line of his neck and his waist and the many curves of his lips, but when Jongdae leans up into him late in the evening, sighing a little more into their hug than usual, and whispers in his ear, Jongin balks. 

“I don’t – I don’t want to,” he stammers. “I. I don’t want to with anyone, sorry, I. I’m not. It’s not. I don’t want to kiss you.”

Jongdae backs down immediately, concerned eyebrows raising. “I’m sorry,” he says.

After that, it’s mostly fine. Jongdae asks questions because he’s nosy and he’s trying to sympathize. He promises to forget about any feelings he has, he promises it’s not a big deal and that everything can be normal and the same. 

It mostly is. He still captures Jongin in his affectionate vice of an embrace regularly, and that’s fine. That’s Jongdae periodically letting his fondness overtake him, Jongin loves that and he loves Jongdae. 

He hardly ever catches Jongdae looking him up and down anymore, hardly ever reads his grin as predatory. Sometimes, though, Jongdae’s hand will skate across his stomach, and sometimes the way Jongdae watches him dance makes his skin prickle. Jongin just waits for it to pass, then, waits for the slight discomfort to leave his body. 

Jongdae doesn’t push.

-

Jongin finds Minseok after dinner one day. He’s a bunch of points, limbs sticking out to every corner of his bed, headphones in, texting and bobbing his head a little. His hair is as messy as his posture. He smiles wide when he finally sees Jongin.

“Hyung?”

Minseok pops his earbuds out. “What’s up, Jonginnie?”

“I just wanted to talk to you.”

Minseok doesn’t always talk a lot, and neither does Jongin really. Jongin thinks it’s because Minseok likes to be articulate when he says things that hold weight. He imagines that around ten young boys it’s hard to have the space to talk singularly about things that matter. He sits down on Minseok’s bed. 

A corner of Minseok’s mouth lifts and his eyes are wide in invitation.

“I think I’m probably asexual?” Jongin says.

Minseok grins, sudden and bright. Jongin pauses, taken aback. Minseok folds his legs and leans forward, clasping his hands. “Ah Jonginnie, you’re the best!” He claps once. “You can keep telling me, if you want.”

Jongin shrugs his shoulders and keeps them up for a moment, unsure. “I mean. But I’m not sure? I’m attracted to people, I think. And obviously I still… you know.”

Minseok giggles and nods.

“Yeah. Um. But I never want to actually have sex with anyone. Dating, either. I don’t want to do that either.”

“I bet no one gets it, huh?” Minseok’s voice is quiet and clear. “Everyone’s so obsessed with that stuff. God knows I am.”

A laugh breaks over Jongin and surprises him. He’s so glad he has Minseok.

“Does everyone else know?”

“Some of them. Most of them, I think. Suho-hyung asked.”

Minseok hums again, and then he reaches out to Jongin, making grabby hands at him, and Jongin scrambles forward to sit between his legs, curled up against him. He rests his head on Minseok’s shoulder, smiling still.

“You know I’m gay, right?”

Jongin lifts his head. He’s sure his eyes are too wide; he didn’t know. But it makes sense, the way Minseok is, the way he looks at Changmin and Yunho sometimes. The way he looked at Lu Han. Jongin feels so comfortable in that moment he smiles again, uncontrollably. Minseok just pulls him back into relaxation, rubs his shoulders.

“I like it when you tell me things. Don’t ever worry.”

Jongin leans completely into Minseok’s small chest and closes his eyes.

“I like when you tell me things too, hyung.”

-

“Kim Jongin! Kim Jongin! Kim Jongin!”

Something in his chest expands a little each time he hears that name shouted up to him. 

There next to Taemin, who gets his own, louder, chant and who’s giving off such bright light in his own spot, the pressure is a little less. He holds back a smile as Kai’s line begins. Everything about this dance has come together, slowly, his steps sure, his body fully and effortlessly grasping the choreography. He delivers his part without flaw before he retreats again, Taemin again taking center stage.

The crowd is still shouting for him. “Kim Jongin! Kim Jongin!” 

His own name.

Before the show, Chanyeol had come up beside Jongin and hugged him, gentle and warm with slightly bent knees. “Kill ‘em Jonginnie. I love you.” Kyungsoo had bumped his shoulder into Jongin’s arm and smiled at him; he’d even gotten a genuine hug and encouragement from a sleepy Sehun. Junmyeon had given him a little push towards the stage with a final, “Don’t be late!”

Jongin had rolled his neck and shoulders once, feeling his joints click that little last bit into place.


End file.
